Fallout: A Lonely Future
by eaglescorch
Summary: Twelve years after the last crisis, the Courier is busy burying the past. Before he can close the book on history and move forward into the future, history comes back to find him. As events unfold and he is drawn deeper into a conspiracy born from his past, the Courier desperately tries to find a way out. Unfortunately, there's no one left to help him. No one but himself.
1. We're Still Here

Back by popular demand is the term I'd use to describe why this story exists. I've taken down the Scope, due to two reasons. One, a virus infected my computer and did some damage before I was able to deal with it. That damage included the erasure of the entirety of the Scope, which I was planning on releasing all at once. So the resolution to that will be incorporated into this instead. Secondly, I realized it's hard to give up old habits, so I figure I'll turn around and do this one more time. Then probably another thirteen "One More Time" if past experiences are indicative of anything.

This one's more light in tone then the rest of my Fallout stories, far lighter then Eon. It still has my special touch of bleak darkness, though, so don't think that isn't happening. However, there's a lot less action in this one, and it's more about the characters. I hope you like it.

So, here we go again. We pick up with the Courier, twelve years after Eon...

* * *

Fallout: A Lonely Future

Chapter 1

We're Still Here

Mojave Wasteland - 2305- New Vegas

Inside the Lucky 38 there sits a man. A tall man, with pale skin and white hair. His face is young, but scarred by wounds that take normal men a lifetime to develop. They say that his eyes are black and green, ferociously bright, and piercing to the soul. Some even say he has acquired the long sought after secret that men have spent millennium to find: Immortality.

"Rubbish." You might say. "How could anyone ever gain such power? How could it even exist? It's just a myth." You'd be wrong. He didn't gain it by choice but by accident, mostly due to a mass amount of cybernetic implants that were now beating beneath his skin, some of which weren't even of this Earth but based off technology from alien technology that fell to Earth from beyond the stars. As it was the last thing a depressed, traumatized, and suicidal individual would want, he wasn't exactly pleased, but he'd be lying if he said it didn't come in handy in the past. Whether it be against the forces of a dark army of limitless resources or one individual with the ambition and conviction to bring his world down.

This man is known as John Hollister, the Courier, and he is finally alone. While there hasn't been a crisis that threatened all of humanity in over seven years, a new record by his estimates, there had been plenty of bloodshed. Most recently, a war between his New Vegas Confederacy and the Midwestern Brotherhood of Steel over the fate of the Original Brotherhood of Steel that now was sheltered in Confederate Borders. Many died, with many being friends of his, including beloved mechanic Raul Tejada, who made a noble sacrifice to save a soldier whose name he didn't even know. They were trapped beneath a pile of crumbling debris after a tank shell took out the supports of an old building. The soldier's leg was crushed. Raul got him out and onto a medical transport, but before he could get aboard, a sniper shot him through the heart.

That sniper was known as Blaze, a former member of a hit squad for the MWBOS. They had taken her rank, her title, everything she held dear from her, and she blamed the Courier for it. It was, after all, he who prevented her from destroying the Original Brotherhood in the first place. She committed that act in a fit of rage and apparently felt guilty for her actions. At least, that was the case according to Noah Torn, a friend of his who defended Blaze. Last time the Courier checked, Blaze was living in Colorado alone.

As for Noah, he rode about the wastes, a wandering tinkerer. He enjoyed a quiet life as well, though did get involved in an adventure or two occasionally. He hadn't seen the kid in over two years, but that didn't bother the Courier. His days of mourning, of hatred, and of unforgiving rage were over. He had finally adapted to the sensation he experienced when those around him died. His solution was to simply move on. Forget them, as history inevitably would either way. Some argued with him on this point, saying that forgetting something doesn't solve anything, and that it won't help him cope with it.

"Yes, but that's what drinking's for." He would invariably reply. When asked what happens when the drinks didn't work, he'd say that's when he'd start taking a mixture of painkillers and hallucinogenics, to which the other person's response would be to invariably snap, punch him, and storm off not to be heard from again. Which suited the Courier just fine.

"Hmm..." He wondered as he sat in a comfy leather chair. "I wonder if I've got any Absinthe lying around." He stood up and looked at the screen. "Yes Man." He called.

The screen lit up to reveal a happy looking face.

"Hi there! Good to-"

"Shut up!" He yelled. "Do we have any Absinthe in this place?"

"No sir!" The computer replied jovially. "You went through our last shipment a few days ago."

"When's the next one coming?" He asked.

"Not for another month, sir. The Crimson Caravan can only work so quickly." Yes-Man declared, still jovial.

"Ugh, I'll head over to the Atomic Wrangler and see if they've got any." John groaned, before walking over to the elevator.

"Good luck!" He heard Yes-Man reply, before shutting off again.

* * *

Freeside - The Atomic Wrangler

The Courier was a favored customer at the Wrangler, partly because he was wealthier then the whole of what was once the NCR an partly because he was a good friend of the Garrets. He walked in to see many people from Freeside wandering about, drinking and gambling, not one even glancing in his direction.

"Hey John!" Called Francine Garret as she wiped off a glass. "Come and have a seat!"

John did so. He sat directly in front of Francine, whose face lit up with excitement at the clinking of caps in his pouch.

"Have any Absinthe?" He asked. "I need a fix."

"Let me check." She took a quick stock of there inventory and found nothing. "Nope, doesn't look like it."

"Damn it." He muttered.

I" think we sold our last bottle to you awhile ago. We're having a hard time keeping up with your demand for that green sludge."

"It's not sludge, it's delicious." He defended adamantly. "Got anything else on tap?"

"Hmm..." Francine put her hand on her chin, looked down at an icebox she kept beneath the counter, and pulled out a bottle she felt fit the bill.

"Nuka-Cola?" John asked. "I don't think you understand. I want to be drunk, not sugar-high."

Francine rolled her eyes. "This can help you do both. It's Rum and Nuka. Chilled."

"Oh that stuff." John eyed it uneasily. "How much?"

"About the same as your usual. Fifty caps a pop." Francine said. She was clearly charging him more then her other customers, but John didn't really care. He tossed roughly three hundred caps onto the counter. "Six bottles then?"

"Yeah. My lucky fucking number." He quipped. She pulled out an old six pack container and put the bottles in it, then noticed a young man approaching John. He was clearly drunk, but John didn't notice until he was right up next to him.

"Hey old man." He groaned through a drunken stammer. "Mind sharing some of that? He asked drunkenly, pointing at the caps that Francine was rapidly pulling off the table.

John looked at the young man. He was covered in grime and dirt, his face was wrinkled, and he had some puncture marks on his exposed arms. A junkie, he deduced, and snarled. "No."

"Come on man..." He was clearly too drunk to realize who he was talking to. Even the big Spade and 21 on the back of his duster coat didn't seem to tip him off.

John made a small smirk, then reached into his pocket. ""You know? I've changed my mind, let me give you something." He said, an evil grin spreading across his face. Francine would have said something, but frankly she saw which way the wind was blowing in this situation, and decided not to get involved. The junkie, have drunk and smiling like an imbecile, wasn't prepared for what came next. John reached for his pouch but rather then grab the caps he grabbed a throwing knife. Without warning the knife was in the junkie's foot and pinning him to the spot. He shrieked for help, but no one bother to so much as bat an eyelash in his direction. He had this coming the moment he approached the Courier.

With lightning quick reflexes, the Courier drew a 9mm Pistol and put five rounds in the man's chest, before putting a sixth right between the eyes. It was his lucky number after all. The corpse toppled over and John pulled the knife from it's foot, before a few security men pulled the body out onto the street.

"That was... something." Francine said aloud. "Tell me John, why does death follow you where ever you go?"

John grabbed his drinks and started walking towards the door. "I guess it's something like a jealous mistress. If you don't give it enough attention, it murders your wife and turns her blood into a psychotic work of art to get your attention back." He declared.

"That seems specific." She replied, hesitantly.

"Yeah." He chuckled. "I suppose it is." He walked out the door, leaving Francine to off the blood on the floor.

* * *

At first, John thought of going right back to the Lucky 38, but then paused in the middle of the street. Rather then turning right towards the Strip, he turned left and headed out of Freeside. He made a U-Turn around New Vegas's outer wall and started walking south. He made his way down the Long 15 and through Sloan before reaching his destination: Goodsprings Cemetery. He walked up the hill towards three graves and sat down in front of them, taking the first swig of one of his bottles. The freshest of the entire bunch by far, these three all carried value to him.

His whole goal of his current exercise in drinking and drug-addiction was to help suppress memories of those he cared about in the past, but not these three. He'd always remember them, whether he wanted to or not. On the far left, his wife: Rose of Sharon Cassidy, whom died with his unborn child at the hands of an enemy whose insanity knew no end. On the far right: Ulysses, the man he would gladly call brother, who was taken by an incurable infection brought upon him by a nameless assailant. Finally, in the dead center, a man who bore many titles, but only one name: Leon Stinger. Most called him Lone Wanderer once, though now that title had passed on and his name was only spoken in hushed tones and whispers, as he was remembered as a villain rather then a hero.

Leon tried on multiple occasions to kill John, though each failed, and in the end he died in the arms of his archenemy. His archenemy and possibly his only friend at the end of it all.

"Well, Leon, I don't know I'm doing here." He said aloud to the grave. "I've been here, what, fifteen times now? I've told you practically every little thing. From petty grievances to vendetta-fueled rhetoric. I've said everything there is to say, but yet, here I am. Why is that do you think?" He asked, though he wasn't actually expecting an answer. That is why it came as such a shock when one came.

"I'm guessing it's due to a bewildering sense of guilt." Came a mechanical but lively voice.

John's eyes widened. He sobered up in an instant and turned his head to find a humanoid machine dressed in a duster coat much like his own.

"What did I say?" John replied, recognizing the man in an instant.

"Just now? Well I think you said-" He tried to respond but was cut off.

"What did I say Ouranos?" He repeated, reaching for a pistol.

"Never come back to the Mojave. I apologize John, but staying away was out of the question." Ouranos, the Adversary, relaxed as John's fingers moved away from his pistol. "Mind if I sit down?"

"If I said no, I'd be lying." John replied, before motioning him over to sit. "Why have you come back?"

"Penance mostly." The Adversary replied, dropping his hood and revealing his stark silvery face. The half of it facing away from the Courier was covered in fake skin that seemed to be recently damaged. "After you spared my life, I was overcome by emotion. No one had ever wasted an act of kindness on me."

"I wouldn't call kindness a waste and I definitely wouldn't call what I did kindness. The word I use is mercy." John replied.

"Well, whatever you call it, it changed my view of things." Ouranos continued unabated. "I went on a sort of pilgrimage to the Northern Wastes, back to where I first lived, and it was there I realized something."

"That you're a second-rate A.I whose older brother was a genocidal megalomaniac who deserved a slow painful death and whose younger brother wants nothing more then to see you buried six-feet underground?" John spoke all of that without so much as taking a breath. He seemed to have been preparing it for sometime.

Ouranos raised his equivalent of an eyebrow. "That was... something." He said.

"You know, you're the second one to tell me that today." John chugged another bottle of Rum and Nuka. "It was no less annoying then." There was a long pause. "So, what did you realize?"

Ouranos shook his head. "I realized I care." He revealed. "I care about others, I care about humanity, and I care about you. I realized how much tragedy I had caused in my wake. My mission... No.. My dream is to see that I serve penance and eventually redeem myself."

"That why you threw that symbol on your back?" John asked, pointing out the blue and yellow 101 on Ouranos's duster.

"More or less." Ouranos replied in a sort of non-committed way.

"I was wondering who was running around calling themselves the Lone Wanderer now. Guess I lost a few caps on that one." John finished his last bottle and tossed it all away. "I hope you realize that just wearing a symbol doesn't redeem you, nor does simply apologizing to those you've wronged."

"I know that. There's more to my return then simple apologies, but for now it's a start." Ouranos finished.

"I guess it'll have to be." John conceded. "I suppose if penance is what you are here for, I can accept it. You're free to wander, but do anything to betray my trust..."

"It will never come to that." Ouranos defended, standing up. "I'm going to prove to you that I've changed, I'm going to live up to the legacy of this symbol." He pointed to the 101 on his back.

John stared uneasily. "I'm not sure that's the best idea. His legacy... It's not a particularly noble one."

"I know, but I'll make it noble again." Ouranos declared. "After all, we're still here to make a difference, aren't we?" He walked away without waiting for an answer, not that John could really give one. He wasn't sure what to say really. Those three words hung in the air for some reason.

"We're still here." John whispered to himself. "Huh, I guess we still are." He left the issue at that and stood up to take a quiet moment of faith. Perhaps Joshua Graham's teachings had rubbed off on him, as he converted to Mormonism some time ago. Some thought him completely insane for doing this and they were probably right, but he wasn't going to stop now.

He was so busy, he didn't notice two pairs of beady eyes glancing at him from afar. One with vivid fascination, the other with uncertain fear. The uncertain one of them departed rapidly, choosing not to approach. The other did not. He watched the Courier with absolutely obsessive insanity through a spyglass.

"You took it from me Courier Six." He muttered madly to himself. "You took it all. Now I'll take it all back."


	2. The Impossible

Okay. So I'l be honest. There's something at the end of this chapter that I've wanted to hold off, but I'm a little excited to wait any longer. I won't say anything, but I think people will either be pleasantly surprised or furious. Possibly both.

Enjoy... Hehe.

* * *

Joseub: Maybe.

Dumpsterhobo01: Thanks for your support.

* * *

Chapter 2

The Impossible

Zion Canyon Valley - 1 month later

Ouranos, the Adversary, walked through the wilderness of Zion National Canyon, which was slowly making it's way back to recovery. It was still charred, but the ashes had cooled, and the plants that survived the incineration attempt by Lazarus were now blooming anew everywhere. Sunlight had finally dawned once again as the last traces of his influence were swept away.

For once, he was glad people were trying to forget him. Redemption starts with forgiveness, perhaps, but after that it's better they remember what you became rather then who you once were. Of course, he had yet to accomplish the first half of that statement, but he was determined to start that here. As he passed the still recovering wilderness, he saw young ones of tribals and animals alike playfully frolicking through the canyon, a sign that things were finally beginning to improve.

The Sorrows and Dead Horses had moved to the Spine, deciding it be best to restart somewhere untouched by the bloodshed of the past decades. That was where the Adversary went now. At first, no one seemed to mind the new visitor, but then they recognized his metal flesh and began to view him with open contempt. Not a single one of them was pleased to see him. Their hate practically heated the air around them.

"Why have you come here?" Came a voice from afar. He turned up to see a man approaching. He didn't recognize him at first, before realizing that it was Bill Calhoun, the follower who helped Caesar and Graham ascend to power. He had come to the tribes to help mend the damages done to the valley. Except rather then just administer aid, he helped rebuild the tribes, and reunite there allies. He, like Joshua Graham before him, was seen as a figure of legend to these tribal peoples. Where Joshua taught them the ways of war, he taught them the ways of peace, but did not try to change their beliefs. He let them do with his teachings as they wished, he just believed that it be best to maintain some semblance of familiarity among the tribes.

"I've come seeing you, Confessor." Ouranos replied. "I seek your forgiveness and my redemption." Calhoun raised a skeptical eyebrow. He was dressed old NCR Ranger Patrol Armor that had been stripped of it's marking, and held a cane which he tapped nervously.

"Interesting. Follow." He commanded, motioning Ouranos towards a log cabin. They entered to the prying eyes of every tribal within a quarter mile, there stares burning holes in the back of Ouranos's hood. "I'd heard that you'd come back." Calhoun replied, sitting in a rocking chair in his cabin. "I never thought I'd actually meet you, Adversary."

"Ouranos, please." He corrected. "I want to leave that life behind."

Calhoun smiled ever so slightly. "Good. That shows... something." He hesitated to call it progress as he barely knew the Adversary. All he knew about him was the fact that he was a violent madman, but that wasn't present in the man he currently spoke to. "What makes you think these people are ready to forgive you, Ouranos? What makes you believe you've earned the privilege?"

"To be truthful, I don't believe I have done anything to earn it. That is why I came here, I want to find somewhere to begin." Ouranos said with a humble and reverent tone.

"I see..." Calhoun pondered this for a moment, stroking his long white beard. "And you believe I possess the secret to doing so?"

"I know you do." Ouranos replied firmly. "I know."

Calhoun smiled faintly. "You are correct, I do know where we can begin, but it may very well be the most difficult thing you've ever done." Calhoun's eyes widened dramatically. "Are you sure you are willing to undertake this difficult path?"

"Without hesitation."

Calhoun laughed hardily as his smile extended it's reach. "Good! What is bravery without a little recklessness? Now, if you wish to find redemption in the future, it begins by looking into the past. You must remember all you've done. All the people you hurt, all the lives you ruined, all the terrible things you've done... Then you must tell them to me."

Ouranos blinked. "That's it?" He asked.

"That is it." Calhoun replied. "You think it's simple, don't you? You think it's easy? Try it, then tell me if you still think it is."

Ouranos blinked twice. He wondered how many times Calhoun had said that, as he seemed to anticipate what Ouranos was thinking before he actually thought it. He did believe this would be an easy task, as his memory was designed to be perfect. Yet, when he began, he realized that wasn't the difficult part.

The difficult part was finding where to begin and to see how long it would take to reach the end.

* * *

The Courier, following his encounter with Ouranos in the cemetery, moved on with his life. He stamped documents that found there way to his desk, authorized military maneuvers, and a ton of other government nonsense that he wished he could drop on someone else's lap. Truthfully, he did find joy in his job now, but he liked it better in the days when he could just run about doing whatever he wanted.

"Ah memories." He muttered to himself. He poured a glass of Absinthe from some new bottles he got from the Crimson Caravan, then pushed the glass aside and took a swig from the bottle.

_Why bother being formal when you can be direct? _He thought.

"Yes-Man." He called.

"Yes sir?" Came a reply.

"How much do you think it would take to build a state-run distillery?" He asked while it was on his mind.

"Sir?" Asked Yes-Man in response.

"You know, a place where you can make alcohol. Somewhere where we can mass produce drinks." John smiled at the very thought.

"No, I understand sir, but do you really think that's a worthwhile use of-"

"Absolutely." His tone suggested that this was his final point on the matter.

"Well then sir, I believe it would cost somewhere in the range of five to seven-hundred thousand caps in expenses." Yes-Man finalized some numbers in his head. "Yes, I think that's it."

"Oh." John said. "That's a lot."

"Yes sir." Yes-Man replied. "That is a lot."

John thought about it for another few brief seconds, then shrugged. "Start development immediately." Yes-Man wasn't sure why he was surprised at John's statement.

"Shall I inform the Garrets and get their expertise, sir?" He asked, using his normal cheery tone but hiding a thick layer of distress beneath his voice.

"Sure." He replied, standing up and walking over to the window. "I think we'll place it somewhere near Jacobstown. That seems like a prime spot. What do you thi-" He was cut off by the sudden sound of a gunshot and shattering glass. There was a sharp stinging sensation at the back of his head and he stammered forward. A bullet had gone straight through the back of his head and out the other side, which would have been fatal to anyone else, but two slight facts made it less then a problem for the Courier. First off, he couldn't die. Secondly, he didn't have a brain currently in his head. So the holes quickly closed while John simply blinked. He turned around slowly and looked out the window. The shot had been pulled off at impossibly long distances considering the fact that it appeared to have enter at precisely the same elevation as the Lucky 38 with no drop off. There weren't a whole lot of places in the wasteland where that coudl be done and the only one currently in sight was the mountain where Jacobstown was located.

"Are you alright sir?" Came Yes-Man's voice.

"Huh? Oh yeah just..." He stopped. He looked over at the table. The bullet apparently shattered the glass which was holding his spare Absinthe. "Actually, Yes-Man, no. I'm absolutely livid."

"Do you need anything sir?" He asked politely.

"No." John replied. "I think I'm just going to take a little skiing excursion."

Yes-Man paused. "Do you really think that's appropriate? You did just take a bullet to the head... Again." He said this with genuine concern, obviously not picking up on the point. He said nothing as he walked out of the building, choosing to let Yes-Man figure it out for himself.

* * *

About an hour later, John was standing on Mt. Charleston, looking around with curiosity. He stomped his feet through the snowcapped mountain. His eyes swept over the entire mountain side, occasionally falling upon a Mantis or Bighorner that he quickly gunned down with his pistol. He slowly made his way over to the spot where a shooter would have been and found, much to his own surprise, nothing. No residue, no bullet casing, no body prints to indicate a sniper. Nothing. Just an empty spot.

He adjusted his tools to make sure this was the spot where the trajectory of the bullet came from. They confirmed this would have to be where the bullet came from, making John ever more confused. Then he saw something that cleared it all up. While there were no signs of a shooter, there were signs that someone tried to cover their tracks to the place where the bullet fired, such as deliberate movement of dirt and snow. They hadn't been as thorough in clearing that.

"Hmm..." John mumbled. He cleared off some of the snow and dirt. "What in the world?"

He saw footprints, like he expected to, but they were disfigured. The shooter hadn't been wearing shoes and it showed. Toes were missing, flesh was cut, and from the looks of things his foot might have been cut in half. A surprisingly detailed impression, probably why he tried to cover it.

He used an old camera to take a picture of the damage, then left. He wasn't sure what to make of it, as he expected more evidence then simple messy footprint, so he simply put it aside. Whomever it was probably thought he was dead and was probably underground. Probably.

Probably.

* * *

At the same moment, the Adversary was finishing up his crimes. He had entered that shack while the sun was high in the sky and now it was nearly night. The exhaustion had set in for him and Calhoun, but they persevered through his struggle.

"There was one more thing..." He muttered. "The last thing I did..."

"And? What was it?" Calhoun asked.

"I hurt the Courier." He replied. "He spared me. That's what made me decide to change."

Calhoun nodded. "And that is it? Those are your crimes?"

"Yes... Every single one of them..." He was exhausted and had a headache now, but he felt relieved to having explained his crimes.

"Good. Your first step is complete." Calhoun revealed. "You've shown you have the capacity for guilt and regret, but you need to show those you've changed a sign that you changed."

"The tribals." Ouranos came to that conclusion on his own. Which made it a surprise when Calhoun replied.

"No. The tribals will never forgive you on their own." Calhoun revealed. "To earn their forgiveness, you must earn the forgiveness of one they respect and love."

Ouranos put his head in his palms then locked them together. "And whose that?" Ouranos asked.

"You already know." Ournaos thought about this, his cold metal fingers pressing against his forehead. Then he realized it.

"The Courier..."

Calhoun nodded. "Yes."

Ouranos blinked. "Are you fucking serious? I came all the way here and now you're telling me to go all the way back? Just to get the forgiveness of a man who will never let go of his past? What the hell is wrong with you?!"

Calhoun, in a surprising move, laughed. "You know, you're the second one to tell me this in the last month."

Ouranos widened his eyes. "Second? Who was the first?"

* * *

The Courier walked up the doorstep of the Lucky 38, ready to rest for the night.

"What a day." He muttered. He took one last look at the Strip. Individuals gambling there life away with a stomach full of beer and a head full of drugs. Truly a life worth aspiring to, given the world's current status. "See you tomorrow you sad bastards." He muttered.

"Got a free room?" Came a voice. John stopped. He turned around. He saw that someone, seemingly out of nowhere, appeared. He was dressed in an old tattered hoodie with cargo pants as well as boots. John couldn't see his face, but he saw a strange glow beneath it.

"No. It's a private residence." He replied.

"Oh, that's a real shame.: The mystery man replied. "I guess I'll find somewhere else to go. Do you know anywhere they'd welcome a face like mine?" He lowered his hood and John's heart stopped. His body froze, every muscle in his body tensed up, and his eyes widened to the size of baseballs. He opened his mouth to speak, but it just hung open without a word.

The face was so familiar. So very familiar. He knew who it was, but it couldn't be possible. That man was dead. Buried at Goodsprings in a marked grave. He personally was the one to bury him. He held him in his arms as he died. He was older now, his cybernetics rusted, and his body was worse for wear but he could clearly see who it was.

"Leon..." John mumbled as thought he had just seen a ghost.

"Hi John." Replied the Lone Wanderer, still very much alive. "Well... I guess the only thing I can say is... I'm not dead."


	3. Unwelcome Surprise

Yes. I know I've been gone for two months, but to be fair those two months have been filled with anxiety, discomfort, and an overwhelming feeling that the walls were all closing in around me. It wasn't pleasant. The fact that I've been able to place this out is an accomplishment for me.

Here we go. Chapter 3.

* * *

As all the reviews had the common theme of me tearing peoples hearts out in shock, I will simply respond to all of them with these three words.

You Are Welcome.

* * *

Chapter 3

Unwelcome Surprise

They stood there for a time, John and Leon. The Courier and the Lone Wanderer were now face to face for the first time in nearly twenty years. One was overly pleased with himself and the other was simply quiet, as if paralyzed. Neither spoke, the only interaction between the two was a smile on Leon's face and a hardened scowl on John's, whose upper eyebrow was twitching.

"Well..." Leon started off. "Nothing to say? I mean, I know I've been gone a long while, but I'm still me!" He declared. He still received no response. "Nothing? Not even a sarcastic quip or enraged rant? Nothing at all?"

The silence simply dragged on. For five minutes more, the Courier stared at Leon, who kept turning his head to different angles to see if he wasn't seeing something that John was. He stepped out of the way of the Courier's line of sight. While he didn't turn his head to follow Leon, his cold eyes slowly came to rest on the man as he tried to slip by.

"Well then, I guess I'll just head on in. Get cleaned up, say hello to Sarah, and then maybe hit the town." He said casually.

"Sarah's dead." John declared, finally speaking. He did not turn to face Leon, who had walked past and had been motioning towards the door. All he heard was his feet stopping where they stood.

"Excuse me?" Came his voice. John turned around to look at Leon, whose face had gone from smug to quizzical.

"She died twelve years ago, Leon. So did Veronica." John explained, furthering Leon's descent. "By this point any smug superiority he held was gone. Did it ever occur to you that time has passed before you came here?"

"But... That... Who..." Leon was having trouble finding words, which was convenient because by that moment, a high frequency radio signal was headed right for his Pip-Boy. John answered it.

"Yeah?" John asked, not knowing to whom he was speaking.

"It's Ouranos." Came the mechanical voice of the machine on the other end. "Listen, I've got news."

"I think I already know what it is." John replied.

"Huh? Sorry, this signal isn't stable, I only got static there."

John simply rolled his eyes. "Nevermind." He muttered.

"I think Leon may still be alive." Ouranos declared, oblivious to what was happening on the other side.

"I know." John said solemnly. "He's standing in front of me."

"What?" Ouranos went through a veil of static.

"I said he's standing in front of me!" John screamed into his Pip-Boy, drawing the attention of almost everyone else on the street.

"Oh." Came the reply. "Does he know?"

"I'm bringing him up to speed now. Anything you want to say to him?" John asked.

"Does he know you're talking to me?"

"No, he's just kind of stammering in confusion right now."

There was a pause. The sound of Nat King Cold's Orange Colored Sky was playing throughout the background, then eventually Ouranos's voice came back.

"In that case, it's probably best if I don't." Ouranos decided, surprisingly cohesive in his language. "I'll find him later and make connections myself. For now, leave me out of this." He sounded like he wanted John to promise. Something he wasn't going to do.

"We'll see." John replied and then flicked off his radio. He looked back up at Leon, whose hand was in his palms. He hadn't heard a single bit of their conversation, which was a shame as it appeared that the machine was finally getting the hang of speaking like a normal person. That was staggering progress as far as John was concerned. Probably would have made Lazarus briefly reconsider murdering him had he been around.

John walked up to the now despondent Lone Wanderer and placed a hand on his shoulder.

"Come on. I think we both need a stiff drink." He said, before turning them away from the Lucky 38. They needed a stiff drink, but that didn't mean he was ready to just believe this was Leon and welcome him back with open arms. Frankly, even had he known he was the real deal, he wasn't going to just throw a welcome home party for him.

In fact, he was extremely lucky that John didn't put a bullet between his eyes the moment he saw him.

* * *

They ultimately decided that the closest thing to low-key on the Strip was the Tops Casino. Specifically, they sat down in the Tops Restaurant, the only family friendly attraction on the Strip. He motioned over a waiter and requested two bottles of the strongest liquor they had. About a two minutes later, two bottles of Moonshine.

"Drink up you sad fuck." John declared, before downing a good amount his own bottle. Leon stared at it for a moment, before doing the same thing. They were done in under a minute. Leon hadn't changed his attitude, so John motioned the waiter over again. Again, there were two bottles of moonshine swiftly downed. They repeated like this for a few rounds before he eventually just requested the waiter send the tab to the Lucky 38 and send roughly twenty bottles of Moonshine to Leon and some good old fashioned Whiskey for himself. To be honest, Moonshine was never his fancy.

Leon finally spoke around the seventh bottle, surprisingly having not gone blind in that time.

"How'd it happen?" He asked.

"Huh?" John asked in reply, before catching up. "Oh right Sarah."

"Yeah. How'd it happen?" Leon asked again. For a second, John thought about mentioning the Adversary, but decided not to.

"Answer me a few questions first and maybe I'll tell you." John asserted.

"That's not fair." Leon replied. This time the response was far less direct, but by no means was it subtle. John began twirling a knife in his hands, then slowly and calmly dragged it across his own throat. Green liquids suddenly poured from his veins, down onto his suit. Leon's eyes widened, as though he was watching a waking nightmare, but then widened further when the wound suddenly began to close. John smiled at Leon's shock.

"This is what you miss when you vanish for years at a time." John declared. "Immortality, five years of suicide attempts, and a shit ton of other things." Quietly, he charted down how much Ouranos owed him now. Between sparing his life after committing countless atrocities and now not mentioning his survival to Leon, he was pretty sure he could convince Ouranos to die for him about a dozen times over.

"You owe me a fucking explanation." John demanded.

Leon swallowed hard. "Okay..." He said. Message received.

"Tell me how you're here. NOW."

He did so.

* * *

"When I met with Goliath, things didn't go the way I though they would." Leon explained. "He wasn't cruel, callous, or arrogant like the rest. He was almost sad, like a lonely child on the playground. He didn't fit in, from what he told me, with his brothers. Orion and him acted like brothers, but in reality Goliath hated him. He hated him, his ambitions, and everything else to do with him. He told me about the Last Revolution, what it would do, and why it couldn't be allowed to pass."

"Did he give you specifics?" John asked.

Leon nodded. "Yes, but the less said about it the better." John agreed and they continued. "Apparently, he turned Supremacy Two into Anarchy One, which he used to covertly sabotage Orion without actually harming anyone. At first, he was looking for a peaceful solution to the Orion problem. Then a war broke out between their divisions and... Well, you know the rest."

"Of course, but you still didn't-"

"I'm getting to it." Leon interrupted. "He had a feeling you'd kill Orion one way or the other, which I guess you did. Except, as we both know, Supremacy One was a fucking network. They were everywhere, with cells in every capital city on the planet, which now happen to be where civilization is putting itself back together. Goliath believed that if Orion was killed and the Last Revolution was stopped, one of those cells would gain control of the others, and their methods would be less... Methodical then Orion's. So, with that in mind, he made me an offer: In exchange for the protection of the Capital Wastelanders and any of my friends who were still left..." He paused as John rolled his eyes. "What? I still had people I cared about."

"That doesn't mean they cared about you." John scowled.

"Fuck you." He replied simply, then continued. "In exchange for their protection, I would dismantle the rest of Supremacy One all around the globe. He gave me a vehicle, some caps, a shit ton of guns, and I handled the rest. It took me nearly twenty years to take the whole thing down, but I managed." Leon seemed a little bit too smug, but John let it slide for now. He had a more pressing question on his mind.

"Then who exactly did I bury in my backyard?" He asked, referring to Goodsprings.

"Oh. That was a clone." Leon replied simply.

"A clone." John repeated.

"Yeah. A clone. You see-"

"Fuck it! I don't care!" John suddenly exclaimed, looking Leon dead in the eyes as he threw up his arms. "I wanted some actual answers to this, but I see it's just more cloak and dagger bullshit! Well, let me tell you something: I'm through with cloak and dagger bullshit! If I want an answer, I just want a fucking answer. I don't want a thousand reasons why it had to be done that way, at that time, in that exact fashion. If someone were to come up and shoot me, I'd prefer they did it to my face, Leon!"

"What?" Leon asked confused as John stood up and clutched his hair.

"I'm saying that I prefer it when the answers are simple. For the last twenty years, everyone's been so vague and cryptic with me and I've just played along with it. No more! If something's gonna happen, I want it to be summed up in a sentence rather then a paragraph. Get it? I'd rather be shot in my face, as it's direct, rather then stabbed, which isn't direct."

"I... Think I get it?" Leon said, confused and utterly lost as to the point of this rant.

Almost on cue, an individual walked into the room, strode right up to John, and tapped him on the shoulder as he continued to lecture Leon.

"Excuse me." He said. He was dressed in an old caravan uniform, was in his mid-fifties, and seemed to have some kind of purpose in mind.

John rolled his eyes. "For the love of god! What do you-" He turned around and froze. There was a revolver pressed against his shoulder, but that wasn't the interesting part. The interesting part was the man holding it.

Before anyone had any time to react, he pulled the trigger and John crumpled to the ground from the impact. Leon got up to intervene, but the old man's speed was incredible. Leon was barely out of the booth when he was already out the front door of the Tops, barely a single person noticing him leave.

"John? John! Are you alright?" He asked.

"How many more ghosts am I going to have to see today?" He mumbled to himself.

"What?" Leon asked, but then John passed out. His question would go unanswered for sometime.


	4. The Fury

Nothing to say. Let's go.

* * *

Chapter 4

The Fury

John woke up about an hour later, to find two individuals standing over him. One was Leon, the other was Ouranos.

"Oh god." He muttered. "Not you too. I thought you were in Zion."

"I was." Ouranos replied. "I caught a lift on a Vertibird and came here." He wasn't wearing his fake skin, so Leon thankfully didn't recognize him. John didn't bother getting up for two reasons. One, his head hurt. Two, he was still bleeding heavily out of his shoulder. The one place that had to heal like a normal wound due to something Ouranos had done years prior. This was unfortunate considering his body never stopped producing blood, so he'd basically bleed forever until someone shut the wound.

"Hey could you maybe..." John started but Ouranos already knew what he was going to say. He flicked open his metal index finger and fired a small beam of energy into the wound on both sides. It was fused shut almost immediately. "Thanks."

"Are you a friend of Lazarus?" Asked Leon, still oblivious as to who this was.

Ouranos looked at him uneasily. He opened his mouth to speak, only for John to cut him off.

"Yes. He is." John said. "He's a friend."

"Good." Leon said. He held out his hand. "Leon Stinger."

Ouranos stared at him uneasily, then slowly outstretched his arm. "Ouranos." He shook the Lone Wanderer's hand.

Leon smiled, then squinted as he spotted something. "Wait a minute... That coat..." Ouranos and John looked at each other, then back at Leon. He seemed to be pondering something and John had a feeling he knew what it was, so he answered the question before it could be asked.

"He took up your mantle after we thought you died, Leon. He's the Lone Wanderer now." John declared, pulling himself up. Leon looked at him, then looked at Ouranos, who was looking at John. "Look we can sort this out later. I've got more important things to deal with. Did either of you see where Beckett went?

"Beckett?" Asked Ouranos and Leon in unison.

John blinked, then hit himself in the forehead with realization. "Oh right. The guy who shot me? He's called Beckett. Don't know if it's his real name, don't care. Did you see where he went?" Both of them shook their heads and John sighed. "Great. Tell me, why the fuck do I keep you two around?

"I just got here." Ouranos replied honestly. He had never been one to pick up on sarcasm, but John wasn't in the mood to explain it to the Adversary. So instead he simply kept that one on file in his head, presumably under a file labeled: "Reasons to take Ouranos out behind the shed and shoot him in the back of the head."

"Uh... Care to explain who Beckett is?" Leon asked.

"Not really." John replied. "All you need to know is that he's crazy. Now, if you'll excuse me, I'm going to go find him."

"Hang on, I'll come with." Leon declared.

"So will I." Ouranos added.

John adjusted his coat. "No, you won't. You can do whatever you damn well please, but Beckett is my problem."

"What's that supposed to mean?" Leon asked feeling a little left out. "Come on, let us in on the action. I want to see if this guy can live up to my name." He pointed his thumb in Ouranos's direction, who again stared uneasily and clutched his arm.

"First of all, I have no doubt he's lived up to your name. Secondly, I don't want you within fifty-feet of me right now. I'm still not quite sure whether or not I'm going to shoot you in the head. Till I am, stay the fuck off away from me. Besides that, if Beckett is on the loose, I'd say it's best I'm nowhere near Vegas."

"Why is that?" Ouranos asked.

"Because he'd burn down this whole fucking city down if he could catch me in the fire." John revealed, a solemn grimace on his face. "He once tried to pick me off with a hollow point bullet, fired from a pistol, at a full hundred yards or so, just because he had a microscopic chance of landing a hit. So, yeah, I'll just be lying low somewhere. Until I come back, tell... Erm... Ramos I guess... Tell him he's in charge of Vegas." He started walking away and then stopped. "Oh, and also tell him that should he do something really stupid while I'm gone, like start another war with the Brotherhood in the Midwest, I will personally hang him from the arms of the Lucky 38."

Ouranos, who had been following closely, looked up. "Should I specify what kind of rope you'll use?" He asked, again genuinely asking. Yet another entry was filed in John's head and he walked out without another word, save for a bewildered stare at Ouranos.

"Huh. Do you know what rope he uses to hang people?" Ournaos asked Leon.

"Intestines." Leon replied, before walking off.

"Huh." Ouranos mumbled, thinking about that for a moment. "Where are you going?"

Leon turned his head around. "I'm going to take a look around. Apparently, a lot's changed since I've been gone, so I might as well start catching up. Want to come along?" This made Ournaos freeze where he stood. He remembered Sarah, Veronica, and all those he had harmed, not to mention the things he did during the Cross Incident. Leon had yet to put together the connection between Ournaos and the Adversary, but when he did Ournaos knew his rage would once again come unhinged. However, he swallowed, dropped his concerns, and nodded.

"Great, I could use company."

"Where are we going to start?"

Leon thought about it for a moment, brushing his hand against his rugged face as he contemplated it. Finally, he realized what he had to do.

"I need to pay respects to an old friend. Come on, we're going to the Brotherhood."

* * *

Camp Guardian

John made haste once he was out of the Tops. He knew exactly who he had to talk to about this new development with Beckett, but where he would be found was a matter of debate. He'd either be at Bitter Springs or here, but in either case it wasn't going to be easy to convince him to get involved.

The Camp had been a wreck ever since it's fall at the hands of an unknown group of mutants. The last remaining survivor, Halford, had been shot by the Courier when he found him, deciding to put the poor bastard out of his misery. However, recently another visitor to Mojave had started to make the ruined outpost home, and for reasons that never quite made sense to John.

Slowly, he walked up to Guardian Peak, and found that he had made the correct guess in coming here first. The person he was looking for was lying on his stomach, eyes focused down a rifle scope. He was aiming somewhere out in the distance, the shot lining up with a target. John didn't want to bother the artist while he was working, so he sat down on a stone and watched him silently. The sniper had a pair of headphones on and a tape-player running anyway, so he hadn't even realized John was up there with him yet.

Down the scope, in the far off distance, was a Deathclaw. It had been stalking a coyote cub for sometime, looking for the right moment to strike. He wasn't going to give it the opportunity. The sniper, holding his breath, took the shot. The bullet raced through the air, flew right through the Deathclaw's eye, and splattered it's brains across the rocks. Rather then making food out of the cub, it would make good food for the cub and it's whole family. The sniper felt a bit of satisfaction at that. He hated those that would pray on the weak and the defenseless for their own gain, which was why he had been on a rampage throughout Caesar's Legion for the ten years or so. He once even got a shot at Legate Lanius, but was unsuccessful in killing him.

He stood up, brushing off his Bounty Hunter Duster and pausing his headphones. He removed them and began to wrap them around the tape player, revealing that his hair was braided into a long pony-tail at the back, but in a very specific pattern.

John knew what it meant: It was a message written in braids, the symbol of the Twisted Hairs. From what little translation he knew of it, the message roughly translated to one word: Fury. It was the name of the man who wore it.

"Fury." He said aloud, addressing the person rather then the word. Fury turned and looked at John, seemingly not that surprised to see him.

"Courier." He replied. "You aren't welcome here. What do you want?"

John shrugged. "Nothing in particular. Just a bit of information."

"Information?"

"Know anyone who could shoot from Jacobstown to the Lucky 38?" Obviously charisma wasn't getting John anywhere, so he tried being blunt. Surprisingly, it worked.

"Three individuals with custom-built rifles, myself among them. Someone take a shot at you recently?" He asked.

"Yes, followed shortly by the appearance of my dead friend, and a certain acquaintance of ours shooting me in the shoulder." John explained.

"Which acquaintance?" Fury asked.

"Alistair Beckett." John replied with deliberate casualness. This immediately caught Fury's attention.

"Beckett's still alive?" He asked in a moment of cold dread. "I thought my father..."

"Yeah, I did to. I don't know why he's still alive or how he got back into the Mojave, but I need your help to track him down."

Fury stared at John, then turned over the edge of Guardian Peak. He stared at the sun peaking in the sky above them, then turned back to John again.

"For my mother's memory and my father's honor. Not for you, Courier." He declared.

"I can agree to that." John replied.

"Where do we begin?" He asked.

"Well, I remember Beckett used to camp out in some cave in Arizona... Might as well start there."

"Then we shall." He proceeded to leap off into space, seemingly off the edge of Guardian Peak, but when John looked over the edge after him, he was already at the ground, perfectly fine, looking up at him.

"Yep. Definitely Ulysses's kid." He muttered, before sliding down the peak after him.

* * *

Back in Vegas, the Brotherhood Bunker was near empty. Most of the base personnel were either at Helios One, maintaining and defending it from anything coming out of the wastes, or deployed to Hoover Dam to help keep it operational.

Ouranos and Leon entered without problem. Leon's Holotag was still valid, so he was able to gain access. No one inside even batted an eye at him, but everyone stared at Ouranos. He was not a welcome guest, nor did he make anyone feel safe. Everyone knew who he was as they had been briefed on the situation by the Courier after he retook New Vegas.

As they made their way to Ramos, now Elder of the Brotherhood, Ouranos was uneasy. He didn't say anything to Leon about all the hateful glares he was attracting. He was considered responsible for the deaths of both Sarah and Veronica, two top ranking Brotherhood Personnel, and it made him an enemy of their entire faction. He was hated so much that the Midwest offered him a chance to help take down New Vegas, though he obviously refused.

"Ah, Leon." Ramos said as they entered the room. "When I heard your holotag was registered I was expecting to see some... impostor." He peered at Ouranos, who was trying to fade into the background.

"Well, there's a long story behind this..."

"And I don't want to hear it." Ramos cut him off. "I don't care, I just want to know why your here."

Leon blinked for a moment, then shrugged. "John sent me." He revealed. "Apparently you're in charge of Vegas for now."

"Really? Why's that?" Ramos asked, seemingly with no surprise at all.

"He's off chasing some guy. I don't personally give a fuck about the details." Leon replied, then he realized something. "Oh yeah, he did tell me something else."

"Oh?"

"He said that if you do something stupid, like start another war with the Midwestern Brotherhood, he'd personally hang you form the arms of the Lucky 38.""

"By your intestines if Leon is to be believed." Ouranos added. Everyone turned to look at him for a moment and he slipped back into the background.

"I'll keep order from down here." Ramos declared. "I'd rather not leave this place for the Lucky 38."

Leon nodded in approval. "There is one other thing..."

"I think I know what." Ramos interrupted, standing up. He pressed a button on the bottom of his desk and a wall slid open behind him. "Follow me."


End file.
